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Minho loves all his members equally. Truly, he does.

After all they've been through, all the catastrophic lows and dizzying highs, what can he do except adore each boy with all his might? 

Notorious and downright synonymous with skinship, Minho is rarely seen without his arms or legs or hands resting on another boy’s body. In some capacity, at least. He holds hands with Felix, on their way to the convenience store. But Felix’s hands are so tiny and pudgy, everyone in their team can hardly get enough of playing with those tiny digits. Heck, even their manager tries to get in on the action, challenging Felix to games of patty cake and thumb wrestling all in the name of appreciating those tiny little hands.

Minho rests his head on Chan's shoulder, while the other plays Overwatch at two in the morning. They both should've been asleep, but Minho was awake, and in Chan's lap. With both legs hanging off Chan’s hips and through the holes under the arm rests of his chair, and his head nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Chan’s expensive gaming chair groaned under their combined weight, and Chan had to cut his round short, for fear of snapping the seat’s stand clean in two. But everyone cuddles Chan. He's just... cuddly. That's just how he is. 

Minho is affectionate with everyone, though, in defiance of the persona of “cold” beauty he's so known for.

Linking arms with Jeongin, ruffling Seungmin's hair, playing with the knobs of Hyunjin’s knuckles as the boy reads in the living room. Pinching Changbin's fleshy cheeks as he nods off in their dressing room. Holding Felix’s little hand. Committing Chan’s newest cologne to memory as Minho roosts his face into the elder’s neck. He could go on, and on. 

Minho loves all his members equally. 

At least, he thinks he does. Consciously. But subconsciously? That's a whole different beast. 

Because then there's Jisung.

Minho is touchy with Jisung, just like he is with all the other members. Jisung is touchy in his own right, always poking and prodding and tickling. Always grabbing for handfuls of more. More affection. More attention. More contact. 

But with Jisung, it's different.

When Minho is touchy with Jisung he feels different.

He feels, period. 

When he's cuddling the other boys he doesn't feel. He just does. He feels the tactile sensations of their body and lounge wear and shower cream, but he doesn't feel emotionally. Not like he does with Jisung. Of course with the other boys Minho feels brotherly affection and the comfort of being linked with those you are bonded with, but it's different with Jisung. 

Like two days ago, when Jisung flopped onto Minho’s lap after dance practice. Jisung had just finished gulping down water, and a couple crystalline drops wetted the corner of his chapped lips. Made them shine like gloss, before they were gone with a quick swipe of his tongue. He was all sweaty and damp and messy, but Minho felt. Felt his heart start to race in his chest, as he became acutely aware of the weight of Jisung's twiggy frame across his thighs. Of his chest heaving in and out, in and out. Felt Jisung’s heart stutter as he stretched, joints in his elbow popping mere inches from Minho’s ear.

He felt, like he never had before. 

And then there was the week before that, when Jisung lazily linked their hands while watching a movie in the dorm. It was so casual. Just the lacing of their pinkies together. Jisung didn't even bother looking to his left, at Minho. He kept his gaze soft and vaguely disinterested as the comedy on the screen played on. He didn't look at Minho, which was for the best. Because he conveniently missed how Minho’s cheeks reddened considerably in the lowlight, and how he shoveled a hard gulp down his throat. It would have been audible, had it not been for the film blaring from the flatscreen. 

Minho doesn't understand why his body reacts so viscerally when he and Jisung make contact. Even the most innocent, innocuous of touches sends Minho’s pulse through the roof. Makes his heart pound pound pound. Makes his chest flutter as if he'd just hopped off a treadmill. 

It's not like it's a sexual awakening, or anything remotely as profound. Minho is gay. He's known that since he was in high school. Since he fell for one of his fellow backup dancers while on tour with BTS. 

But it never felt like this. Those were infatuations. Lust and nothing more. Nothing but hungry, insatiable want. Voracious desire, skin deep. Literally skin deep, in some cases. 

He doesn't feel like that with Jisung, though. Granted, he doesn't feel like that with any of his other members. Well, maybe a bit for Chan, but can you blame him? 

So Minho doesn't understand why his heart races when Jisung strokes his thumb over the skin between his wrist and his knuckles. He doesn't understand why he dreams of Jisung. Dreams of kissing his nose and eyelids and patented rounded cheeks. 

But he loves all his members, and he loves Jisung. So maybe it's just...love? Love that he feels for all his boys. Platonic love? Brotherly love? Love coaxed through their years of hardships and proximity? It must be, even though Minho can vouch that he's never truly been in love. Romantic love. At least, not that he knows consciously. But he loves his members, with all his being. That much he knows, despite the semantics being a bit wonky. Even though carding hands through Jeongin's mop never makes his heart race. Even though snuggling up to Hyunjin’s impressive frame never makes his cheeks flush. Even though he's never dreamed of anyone else except Jisung. 

He loves them all equally. 

Right? 

🏙

Minho is so jet lagged, he can barely tell up from down and left from right. At least he can tell which coffee on their table is his, lest he suckle down a sickening gulp of Seungmin's sugar-packed brew. That's a success in and of itself. He'll take the little victories, when he can get them. 

They're at a cafe in Midtown, some artfully overpriced coffee joint swarming with people. Millennials in pastel business suits. Older folks, with turtle shell glasses perched on wrinkled noses. And of course, the two boys in the corner. The two strays, straight from Seoul.

The cafe is buzzing with activity, yet Minho and Seungmin are allowed the luxury of blending into the crowd. As if they're invisible to the tired eyes of the other patrons sipping their chai lattes and munching on blueberry scones. It makes sense; most Americans don't know who they are. But at the same time, Minho’s never seen people as indifferent as New Yorkers. Even if they were known as Stray Kids, he couldn't help but think it wouldn't change the muted atmosphere of the shop. It's nice. They can just exist. Not as idols. Not as celebrities. Just as tired people drinking coffee in a cafe with equally tired people drinking coffee.  

Of course there are indifferent people back in Korea when it comes to stardom, but it's different across the sea. There's no brand of apathy like a New Yorker’s, in the face of two maybe-idols-maybe-just-well-dressed-boys slurping coffee in the corner. Minho wishes he could bottle up the normality of the feeling, and store it in his pocket. Take it back home, for when he needs it. 

“Are you nervous for tomorrow?” Seungmin casually asked, over the plastic lid of his iced caramel latte. There's a half nibbled cranberry-lemon scone on a napkin before him, crumbling and in mighty need of a swipe of jam. 

Minho shook his head. He took a swig of his addictingly bitter iced americano before answering. “Of course not. I've been waiting for tomorrow for months.” 

And he has. Tomorrow is the opening concert of their American tour; right in the heart of bustling Manhattan. Minho has been counting the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds until he can perform on stage for their fans. And the day is almost here, now only a few hours away. 

Seungmin smiled, boxy and putting his pleasantly square teeth on display. “That's good. I'm excited too.” 

Minho returned the genuine grin of anticipation, and the world feels perfect. The sun is shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the cafe, nestling warmth directly on Minho's right shoulder. Even the weather is ideal. Last time they came to Manhattan, it was gloomy and foggy and drizzling. Now? There's not a cloud to be seen in the sky. Not an ounce of wind to ruffle the crinkled leaves on the skeletal trees. 

There was silence for one, maybe two minutes.

“So,” Seungmin began, unassumingly. He took a small bite of his scone, and said, “You like Jisung, right?” in between chews. 

Minho was honestly caught off guard by the question. It came so out of left field, he would have sworn it off as a jet-lagged induced auditory hallucination, had it not been for the strikingly serious set to Seungmin's features. 

“Uh, yeah? I love Jisung. Like I love you. Like I love all of us.” 

Seungmin seemed completely unconvinced. Rather, he seemed perturbed by Minho’s answer. Taken aback. Disturbed.

“Dude,” Seungmin’s tone is all flat and unimpressed, like the hardly restrained glower on his face. He's not judging. He's just disappointed in Minho for really being this goddamn clueless. “You totally have a thing for Jisung. Stop kidding yourself, hyung.” 

Now Minho is horribly, horribly befuddled. A thing? For Jisung? What kind of thing? What does a thing entail, exactly? 

“What is a ‘thing’?” Suddenly, Minho's americano tastes acrid. 

Seungmin set him straight. “You know,” he prompted, expectantly. Minho doesn't have a clue, and it must be obvious. Seungmin soon elaborated, much to his own chagrin. “You have a crush on him, right? You like him?” 

Minho was so taken aback by the comment, he might as well have been stuck on a one way flight back to Korea.

“What?” Is all he could manage, through his stupor. He took a long, hard, bitter gulp of his americano, as if it would get his mind back into working order. It didn't. And then, once he swallowed, he tacked on, “A crush? On Jisung? Me?” 

Him? 

Does Minho have a crush on Jisung? Well, he never really thought about it. All he knew is that Jisung made him feel….well, feelings. Mysterious, incongruous, beautiful feelings. He makes Minho feel. That's all he knew, but now? Now, Minho doesn't know what to think.

Seungmin nodded vigorously, and stuffed the last piece of his scone into his cheek. “Yeah,” he muttered, softened from the pastry in his mouth. “You always look at him like he's the most beautiful thing in the world. You can hardly take your eyes off him in the dorm, or in schedules, or in practice. Your cheeks turn bright-ass fire engine red when you touch him. That's a crush, hyung.” 

And when Seungmin said it that way, it sure sounds like one. 

Minho, however, isn't totally convinced. Wouldn't he himself know if he has a crush on Jisung? He can't be that ignorant, can he? 

“There's no way I have a crush on Jisung! He's incredible, ok? We all look at him with big, sparkly anime eyes.” 

Seungmin stared Minho down, down, down. 

“Not like you do, hyung.”

Minho huffed, and took an angry sip of his drink. How can Seungmin be so sure about something so...primal? How can he know where Minho’s heart lies, when he himself doesn’t have a clue? It makes no sense! And on second thought, the beans aren't half bad. A little burnt, a tad sour, but overall a solid americano. Maybe he'll get another one before they head out.

“Look, it's not like I'm gonna wax poetic about Jisung,” Minho said with a flippant flick of a hand. With complete, utter confidence. “But man, Jisung’s hair is so soft. It's like goose down. Like dandelion petals. I wanna run my hands through it all damn day. And his eyes! They're so bright, Seungmin. They're like polished gems shoved into his sockets. And–”

Minho would have gone on for hours. Days. 

Maybe that's a part of his problem. Is it a problem? 

“Minho hyung,” Seungmin is staring at him all weird again. Got his brows pinched in the center and his eyes narrowed. His expression alone made Minho gulp. 

“You just waxed poetic about Jisung.”

Minho choked on his saliva, sending residual drops of americano back up his windpipe, stinging the flesh.

He was about to refute such a claim, when Seungmin’s phone buzzed on the table.

The younger picked it up, and instantly frowned. His lips jutted into a cute little pout, as he said, “It's manager hyung. He asked us to come back to the hotel now.” 

Minho suddenly found the proposition of speaking an insurmountable task. He nodded silently, and took a final sip of his drink. The coffee is gone, leaving nothing but a tasteless slurry of melted ice in its place. He still found himself struggling to pry the straw from his lips.

Once they threw out their drinks, once they strolled through the crowded cafe as no more than two faces in the crowd, once they pushed through the doors and found themselves smack dab in the raucous streets of Manhattan, did Minho muster the courage to speak. 

“Can we talk about this later, Seungmin?” 

This. It didn't need an explanation.

New York is so loud. So bright. Neon yellow taxis fly past with horns blaring. There's building-shaking rap music coming from somewhere. Maybe down the street, and to the right. People are talking into phones and airpods and headsets, polarized sunglasses hiding their eyes. It would make the average person nervous at best, anxious at worst. But Minho finds himself unfazed by the constant noise and movement and light. It's like it all just cancels out into silence. 

Seungmin inputted their hotel into his directions app, and hit go. He began walking off to the west, gesturing for Minho to follow, as a smirk pulled onto his lips.

“There's nothing to talk about.” 

Minho scowled.

He certainly begs to differ. 

🏙

Minho found himself rooming with Chan for this leg of the tour. 

And he couldn't be more grateful for that, because the leader is, objectively, an advice column with arms and legs and a heart. A big, beautiful heart. 

Minho strutted from the adjoining bathroom, toweling dry his freshly showered hair. Chan is splayed out on his designated twin bed, a blob of black on perfectly crisp white. He's got his phone in hand, holding it above his face as he scrolls with his thumb. 

Minho’s been thinking about it all day—his conversation with Seungmin, that is. About Jisung. About the crush Minho apparently has on him. The crush Minho himself didn't even know existed. Still doesn't, at this very moment. 

“Chan hyung, can I ask you something?” Minho innocently posed, between fervently rubbing the wetness from his hair. 

Chan instantly put his phone down, at the addition of Minho’s voice. He slipped it under the covers, giving the dancer his full attention, and said, “Of course, Minho. Is anything wrong?” 

Chan looks worried. His brows are scrunched, his thick lips pursed and reddened. He always looks worried, when one of his boys comes to him for advice or answers or comfort. He just wants to protect them. Wants them to be happy, no matter what. Even at his own expense.

Minho smiled, and padded over to take a seat at the edge of Chan’s bed. He chucked his towel onto the armchair in the corner of the room, and declared, “Do I have a crush on Jisung?” 

Simple as that. No run up or fanfare or sugar coating to be seen.

And, well, that query certainly placated Chan’s nerves. His expression eased, giving way to a crooked and dimpled smile and a twinkle in his eyes. “Should you really be asking me that?” 

Shouldn't you know if you have a crush? 

That's what Chan was thinking, Minho knows. He just didn't say it, because Chan is too nice and he knew it would make Minho blush. And he was right. Minho blushed anyways, despite that particular question being left unsaid. 

Minho barked out a laugh, and scrubbed a hand down his face. Damn. There's a thin layer of foamy face wash under his jaw. He's not thinking clearly, because of reasons. He needs to be more thorough when he showers tomorrow. More present.

Chan gazed at Minho through dark hooded eyes, unreadable. Well, it would've been unreadable, had it not been for the quirk at the corners of his lips. 

“Do you think you have a crush on him?” 

The question was straight forward enough, yet it made Minho’s heart careen through his chest. Plunking from rib to rib on its nauseating descent, until it landed with a smack in his toes. 

Maybe that alone should've been answer enough. But Chan can't feel the fire fraying up Minho’s nerves, not physically at least, so the dancer shook the cobwebs from his head and cleared his throat. And then, he replied, “I don't know. And it's terrifying me.” 

He didn't expect to be so honest. So viscerally honest. So brutally honest. 

But he doesn't regret it, because Chan's mischievous expression mellowed even more. Became more so empathetic. Understanding, and Minho's own heart slowed as if on instinct. He realizes the seriousness of Minho's qualms from that simplistic answer alone. 

Chan gestured at the empty slice of bed to his right. Not needing to be told twice, Minho scrambled to Chan’s side, and slipped under the covers. Minho is only in a tee and joggers, but it's unbearably hot beneath the hotel duvet. How is Chan surviving in his black sweatshirt and matching pants? 

But despite the heat clawing through his cotton loungewear and making sweat prickle on his cupid’s bow, Minho snuggled closer to Chan. Maybe it was unconscious, but he soon wiggled his body until it's cuddled up right against Chan's side. It didn't help the heat, but Minho would be remiss to slide away. 

“Have you talked to him about this, Minho?” 

Him. Jisung. Just thinking his name made Minho's heart pick up speed. Made it race. Shouldn't that have been answer enough? 

Minho shook his head, damp brown locks rubbing into the round of Chan’s shoulder. “I don't even know what I’d say. 'Hey Jisung, I might have a crush on you, but I don't fucking know! Everyone else knows, but not me!’” 

Minho was being facetious, of course. It was a joke, but his tongue tastes acidic after he let the mock-conversation loose. More bitter than the americano from earlier that day. 

Chan laughed, but it was nothing more than a sharp exhale through his nose. He rubbed comforting circles into Minho’s side, calloused fingers stroked gently over the ridges of his muscles. Ghosting ribs, if the pads are pressed particularly hard into his flesh. 

“How do you feel when you're with Jisung? When you think about him?”

Well damn. Minho didn't prepare an answer for that. Granted, he didn't prepare any material for this conversation with Chan. He's still impressed he managed to start the dialogue to begin with.

So instead of falling back on a pre-prepared script, Minho clammed up and actually thought about it.  

He thought about it, until magma began to well up in his heart and threaten to send lava pouring from his mouth. Just thinking about Jisung makes him swelter. Shouldn't that have been an answer in itself, Minho? 

“Jisung makes me feel safe,” Minho muttered first, quiet and under his breath. “He makes me feel like I'm floating. Like the floor is replaced with clouds. It's as if nothing bad can happen when I'm with him.” With each word, Minho's voice evolved from strained to confident to brazen. To empowered.

“He makes me laugh...like really laugh. Not fake laugh for the cameras. He makes my heart swell like it's going to burst when I look into his eyes, and how they sparkle at every damn angle and every level of light. He makes me want to dance and spin and live. He makes me dizzy, but it's addicting. Like getting off the Gyro Drop at Lotte World. Damnit, he makes me,” Minho sucked in a trembling breath, and the air is shaking as it's pulled down his throat.

“ Feel. Feel everything. Like no one ever has.” Minho swore he sufficiently dried himself off after his shower, yet he still feels distinct trails of water running down his face.

He unconsciously raised a hand, and pawed at the mysterious dampness. Minho seems to be doing a lot of things unconsciously, lately. 

Oh. 

Minho is crying.

From talking about Jisung.

He didn't...expect that. And like most things regarding Jisung, those tears should've spoken volumes to Minho. And while it was no more than a persistent whisper in his ear, Minho feels like he's starting to understand what it's saying. Maybe. 

Chan seems appropriately taken aback by Minho's uncharacteristic waterworks, but the shock and awe left as soon as it arrived.

Chan smiled, soft and endeared and tender. He raised a thumb, and swiped the remaining tears off Minho's cheeks. His skin is left red and glowing in its wake, but now relatively dry.

“You don't just have a crush, Minho.” Chan stated, and Minho feels like he's standing on the edge of a cliff. They may be platonically cuddling in Chan’s twin bed, but Minho feels out in the open. Poised on the lip of a raveen with Chan, with the leader holding his hand as the only lifeline saving him from tipping over the ledge. 

And then, Chan proverbially let go. Minho is tumbling. Falling. Plummeting. 

“You're in love.” 

🏙 

Today is a big day. A huge day, even.

It's the first concert of their Unlock American tour, tonight. In a few short hours, they'll be performing for their fans and having the best time of their lives. Minho can hardly wait.

Except, that's not all. That's not the only reason Minho is vibrating with excitement today. Oh no, not at all.

After his talk with Chan last night, Minho made up his mind. Not only did he make up his mind, he has put his mind to it. What is it? Talking to Jisung. About... that. About the debilitating crush Minho didn't know he had on the rapper until twelve hours prior. 

He thought everyone felt like that about Jisung. That all the members daydreamed about him, fantasized about pecking his lips and cheeks and the tip of his nose. He thought they all felt like Minho did, when Jisung was involved. Suffice it to say, he was wrong.

Chan, apparently, feels that way around Felix. Seungmin? Around Jeongin. Changbin? When he's with Hyunjin. 

It's strange. It seems they all have their own person in the team. And yet, they're still each other's people, through and through. 

And for Minho? That person is Jisung. Now, all he can do is pray the feelings are reciprocated. 

But Minho, strangely, isn't nervous at all. Which is quite off brand for him, if he's to be frank. Lacing pinkies with Jisung makes Minho fight away the urge to faint. Locking eyes with Jisung makes Minho’s own vision sway this way and that as if he's trapped in choppy seas. And yet the proposition of—for all and intents and purposes— confessing to him doesn't make him feel anything less than giddy. 

Minho realized a lot, last night with Chan. He realized that those feelings he gets when with Jisung are not simply the byproduct of Jisung’s intoxicating aura. It's not side effects of a simple, mundane crush. It's love. Full bodied, earth shattering, wings-strapped-to-your-back love. 

Minho's been in love with Jisung since they debuted. Since before they debuted. But he was too fucking clueless to understand that his heart racing wasn't from too much sugar and the roll of his stomach wasn't a bout of impromptu food poising. He was naive, and he didn't know. He thought he'd never been in love before. 

Little did Minho know, he's been in love for years. 

And now it's all going to come to a head, mere hours before their first concert. Which isn't the best idea, Minho admits. If it doesn't go as planned, and things become awkward between him and Jisung, it could be potentially disastrous on stage. Their palpable chemistry is a staple of their shows, and any dip in that regularity would be easy to see for eagle eyed fans. Not to mention it would severely dampen Minho's pre-concert excitement if Jisung shoots him down. And a depressed Minho is not a fun Minho. But he's committed himself, and all he can do at this point is be confident. Or at least not vomit on his shoes. They're expensive, and the stylists would have his head. 

He even talked with Hyunjin about the whole thing that morning, in his and Seungmin’s shared suite. 

“I'm gonna confess to Jisung today.” Minho had said, puffing out his chest and placing hands on his hips as if he were posing for a superhero-themed editorial.

Hyunjin spluttered, choking on his glass of orange juice. He was in his oversized sleep clothes, hair wild and messy, but he still looked perfect. Modelesque in the asymmetrical hang of his shirt off his collarbones. Impeccable in the casualness alone. “Wait, confess?! I thought you guys were a thing since District 9! I just guessed you never told us 'cause you were shy, or something.” 

There was that notorious 'thing’ again, Minho noted.

Minho rolled his eyes, but it wasn't malicious in the slightest. He sighed, heavy and melodic. Wistful, even. “Does everyone think me and Jisung are already dating? Literally?” 

It was a joke, honestly. Hyunjin, very obviously, didn't see the humor.

“Uh, yeah.” He deadpanned, in complete seriousness. “Even the managers talk about you guys being an item! The fans ship you two, man!” 

Damn. Was it that prevalent? How did Minho not hear any of the whispers behind their back?! Even online!

“Has Jisung ever mentioned it?” 

Mentioned us? 

Hyunjin pursed his plump lips, seemingly in serious contemplation. “I don't think so? You should talk to him about it, hyung.” 

Minho's lips twitched up at the corner. His heart trilled, as he said, “That's exactly what I have planned, ‘Jin.” 

🏙

The venue is cavernous and vaguely off putting when it's just them on the stage. It looks hollow and disconcerting, with the thousands of seats empty and folded up neat against plush backrests. The vacancy is slightly apocalyptic. Like something from a parallel universe. 

But the stage itself is alive with motion. Lighting directors fiddling with spotlights and candy colored filters, pointing towards stage left and right and then back center. 

Managers zipping about backstage, and setting up water bottles and folded wash cloths at the lip of the stage. 

Eight boys behind the raised curtains, faces dappled in a thin layer of post-practice sweat. Post-practice is a bit of a misnomer. They're only taking a fifteen minute break in between running through sets, after all. Half down, half to go. 

It's Minho's chance. 

Felix and Changbin are sitting off to the right, sharing headphones as they stare at the older's phone screen. Hyunjin and Seungmin are taking photos, holding up peace signs and striking elegant poses despite the nonchalance of their training wear. Jeongin and Chan are going through vocal warm ups to stage left, taking turns massaging each other's throats and vocal chords. Everyone's preoccupied in their own little zones. 

And then there's Jisung.

He's just...looking. Looking out in the empty venue, that will soon be buzzing with life and energy and love for them. Camaraderie spurred from their music alone. Looking at the pairs of boys in their own worlds, his eyes fond and glassy and affectionate. Looking at the managers scurrying about, in their professional brand of frantic. 

Then Jisung turned, elegantly on his rubber soled Converse. Mismatched, one mossy green and one cough-syrup pink. It's purposeful, Jisung’s randomness. His chaos is as organized as they come. He turned, and now he's facing Minho. 

Now, he's looking at Minho.

Jisung smiled, as his gaze locked into Minho’s. It shouldn't be surprising to find out Minho instantly returned the grin. It would be even less of a shocker to learn he did it unconsciously. 

Jisung is wearing a simple white tee, around three sizes too big on his lanky frame, and track pants. And his unmatched Converse. His straw-blonde hair is ruffled up top and dampened along the tips from perspiration, and the locks could use a good combing. He doesn't even have a speck of show-makeup on yet, but Minho would be hard pressed to find anyone more ravishing than Jisung at that very moment. 

It's his moment, Minho realized. He can't let this opportunity pass him by, lest he chicken out and never scrounge the moxie back up again. 

So with that thought in mind, Minho sucked in a steadying breath, and began to walk over to Jisung. Minho was idling over by the right of the stage, and Jisung is a little off center. The trek couldn't be more than a few feet, but Minho swears it appeared the distance of an alpine hike. 

Closer, closer—Minho's Adidas squeaked against the stage floor as he made his way towards Jisung.

Closer, closer—Jisung tilted his head, as if already taking note of the determined set to Minho’s jaw. His eyes are still so bright. So starry. Minho wants to gaze into them until the day he dies.

Which may very well be today, if this confession doesn't go his way. 

So with that totally motivational and not morbid-at-all thought in the back of his head, Minho planted himself before Jisung. His (perfectly matched) Adidas stopping right at the scuffed toes of Jisung’s (perfectly mismatched) Converse. Jisung’s feet are pointing inwards, pigeon toed, like the angle of his knobby knees. Minho's are perfectly parallel and straight. 

“Hey,” Jisung began, softly. Almost knowingly, as he looked up at Minho through his thick lashes. 

“Hey.” Minho probably should've started off better. With something more....attention grabbing. Not just a ‘hey’ but a ‘hey, I think I love you'. But he's pacing himself. He's in this for the long haul. 

“Can I talk to you about something?” Now Minho is making some progress. Covering some much needed metaphoric ground. 

Jisung's smile widened before easing back down. It gave Minho whiplash, like most things Jisung does. 

Jisung nodded, and a stray droplet of sweat in his fringe was shaken loose. It dripped down his forehead, down his cheek, and off his jaw. 

“I think,” Minho’s confidence wavered, as a tremor of nerves threatened to send him to his knees. “I think…” The stage is black and the empty seats are black. Jisung's pants are black. It's all making Minho dizzy. 

But then he looked back at Jisung, once he forced his vision to stop churning. Jisung is looking at him, eyes soft and glittering and anticipating. He looks...excited? 

He looks excited. It spurred Minho on. It held a match under the smothered fuse labeled Minho's confidence, and reignited the flames. It burned like wildfire, until it struck gun powder.

If Minho is an unlit firework, Jisung is his match. His fuse. Jisung makes Minho shine. Makes him bright and colorful. Gives him the power to be that bright and colorful. 

“I think I love you.” 

Jisung opened his mouth, presumably to respond. 

“Wait, no!” Minho sputtered, wildly waving his hands about as if to dissipate the previous sentiment. He suddenly appears nothing short of panicked. 

“I don't think I love you. I know I love you, Jisung.” 

And there you have it. Minho fell down that raveen and now he's clawed his way out, victorious. 

Well, he shouldn't jump the gun. He's not victorious yet. But he can't be blamed for celebrating early. It is the little victories that matter, after all. 

That notion flew the coop, at the sight of Jisung’s demure smile widening and widening until it bunched up the padded flesh of his cheeks. And maybe it's a trick of the stage lights, or Minho's eyes playing tricks on him, but he swears Jisung's cheeks blushed bright pink. Glowing pink. Beautiful pink. 

Minho is victorious. 

Jisung leapt forward, and engulfed Minho in a spine-snapping hug. He shoved his face into the dip between Minho's neck and his collar bones, and breathed. Just a simple inhalation of Minho's musk. Of the dried sweat mixed with the stale aroma of his cologne. 

Jisung linked his arms around Minho's waist, cupping the small of his back beneath his palms. Minho reached his own arms up, and wrapped them nice and snug around Jisung’s midriff. He pulled him close, roosting his own chin on Jisung’s shoulder. They're both sweaty and sticky from practice, but that didn't deter them. In fact, they only pressed each other flush to the other’s body. 

Minho sucked in a whiff of Jisung; he smells the zest of the cinnamon lip balm he bought at the airport duty free shop. The cotton-freshness of his favorite fabric freshener. The salty zing of the sweat dried onto his skin. It's intoxicating. Like Jisung himself.

Minho opened his eyes. He didn't even remember closing them. He hooked his gaze over Jisung’s shoulder, off to the right of the stage. Chan is still with Jeongin by the back of the wall, but now he's looking at the pair in each other's arms. His eyes are glassy, as if he's holding back tears. Maybe he is. Chan has always been such a softie.

Chan sent Minho a sweet little thumbs up, once their eyes met. Once he'd been caught not-so-subtly ogling Minho and Jisung's standing cuddle session. 

Minho winked, and sent Chan a knowing (and grateful) smirk over Jisung’s shoulder.

Speaking of which—

“Minho?” It's Jisung. It's the first time he spoke in a while. Feels like it's been years. 

Minho hummed, and the vibration rumbled from his chest right into Jisung’s. Right into his heart.

“What took you so long?” 

Minho wishes he knew.

But as he chuckled, and shifted positioning to press a kiss to Jisung’s temple, he remembered an age-old proverb;

Better late than never. 

🏙

There's nothing like the high of flopping into bed after finishing a successful concert.

And successful it was. It was an unforgettable night, from start to finish. Minho can still hear their fans’ cheers, if he focuses on the silence for just the right amount of time. He hears phantom whoops and hollers of delight, ringing in his eardrums that sound suspiciously like the lyrics to their songs. When he blinks he sees white and red baubles, glowing ethereal in the dark and waving in time with their melodies. He sees fluorescent slogans and neon placards, reflecting the name of their beloved when the spotlights hit them just right. 

Now Minho sees his own beloved, as he cracks his eyes open. 

Jisung is padding out from the bathroom, a towel slung around his nape and his blonde hair kept off his forehead with a plush headband. It was pure white at some point, but now the plush terry is muddy and tarnished from being subjected to Jisung’s foundation. There's a bright green sprout sewn into the top of the band, standing straight up alongside Jisung's slicked back hair. He's in his pajamas after a shower; a red and white set with pandas on the legs and breast pocket. There's still a soapy splotch of makeup remover under his brow, but Jisung wiped it away with a quick rub from the towel on his neck. 

Jisung is so beautiful, even like this. Especially like this. 

He and Minho are known for their onstage interaction during concerts, and tonight was no exception to the rule. High off his affections not only being reciprocated, but having been in place as long as Minho's own adoration, he released his inhibitions through performance. He turned whatever scraps of nervous energy he had inside out, and they became rockets strapped to his boots. Minho is a dancer after all, and that night he put on a show. 

He even had more than a handful of moments with Jisung; be it not-so-surreptitiously pressing their bodies together during speaking breaks, be it Minho placing steadying hands on Jisung's shoulders as the younger can safely walk backwards into his chest, be it dancing their own special jigs during particularly wild songs, Minho and Jisung had the time of their lives that night. The fact that they shared such a magical evening with their fans and fellow members makes it even more fantastical. Like something from a dream.   

Jisung grinned at Minho, silently, as he walked over to his bed. 

Minho is Chan's roommate, but their leader had something secret and totally not cryptic to record with Changbin, so it ended up being Minho's lucky night. He gets to room with Jisung, and his heart can barely stay contained in his chest. 

“What are you smiling at, all goofy like that?” Jisung teased, taking it upon himself to put two hands on Minho's flank and forcefully roll him over. Minho is too bone tired to put up a fight, and soon Jisung's pushing exposed a rapper-sized sliver of bed. 

Minho didn't even realize he was smiling. How very...Minho of him. 

Jisung crawled in, soon snug as a bug under the thick duvet and top sheet. He's inches from Minho. Less than inches. All Jisung has to do is reach out an index finger, and he'd poke right into the wiry muscle above his hip. 

Minho righted himself from where he was spread loose-limbed on his tummy. He wiggled, ignoring the comforter and sheets miring around his thighs, until he found himself laying on his back. Propped up against the pillows and headboard, looking at Jisung from under his lashes. 

“You.” 

Jisung rolled his eyes, as if to stop himself from physically cringing. Minho is so brazen now. So confident, now that he knows his love is returned. Love has that effect on people, he can only assume. It's so foreign, the concept of love and Minho mingling in the same sentiment. Minho thought he'll never be in love. He thought he had never been in love, until yesterday. Yesterday. It's such an unassuming word, but the weight that can be hidden beneath a simple thing like yesterday can pack a wallop. Yesterday, Minho's life changed forever.

Yesterday, Minho realized he's completely, unstoppably, irrevocably in love with Han Jisung. Sure, he was the only living thing on the planet who didn't know that, but he wised up eventually. It only took a couple years, and a midnight heart-to-heart in a New York hotel room, but Minho made it. He finally connected the dots.

And now his future has taken form. It's bright. Its smile is heart shaped. Its hair is stringy blonde and in need of a hit of purple conditioner. 

Jisung took the amiable silence as his cue to worm his way through the thousand pound duvet, and latch his arms around Minho. He slipped one around the dancers neck, and one around his chest, until his hands laced together on Minho’s shoulder. Jisung lazily threw a leg over Minho's, and with how his joggers have ridden up Minho can feel the freshly washed cotton of Jisung’s pajamas against his skin. 

“I love you, Jisung.” Minho said it once before, but he was addicted just like that. He wants to say it forever, now that he knows. 

“I'm sorry I took so long.” And he is. Minho's trying not to think of all the months, weeks, days he missed out on in his clueless haze, for fear he'll retch onto the high-thread count appointments of the room. 

Jisung hummed, and buried his face into the pocket of space between Minho's jaw and shoulder. He darted up to place a wet smooch on Minho's cheek, and his eyelashes tickled the dancers skin. Made goosebumps prickle his flesh. Made him want more, more, more. 

New York is stampeding below their hotel room, stories under the forest of skyscrapers outside their window. Even on their high floor, horns could be heard beeping. Buses roaring through crowded intersections. Life moving and moving and moving, hundreds of feet below. 

But Jisung and Minho are static. Not completely, as their chests rise in perfect unison and every so often Minho will crane his head down to peck Jisung's forehead. But if New York is a tornado, the boys cuddled up are a desert. Warm. Grains on grains on grains—you can barely tell where one body ends and the other begins. Their breathing soft, like a gentle breeze shifting the sands. 

If Minho and Jisung are together, they're the only people in the known universe. Simple as that. 

Jisung nuzzled his nose into Minho's hair, before tenderly smooching the strands.

Minho opened his eyes. He didn't even realize they'd been closed.

He's met with Jisung, eyes glossy and sparkling and focused on nothing but him. Just one look into those eyes, and Minho feels it. Electricity. Fuzzy clouds cushioning his legs and back and hands. The sensation of running barefoot through grass after it rains. 

He feels it, like he always does when he's with Jisung. Except now he knows. He knows it’s love. Had been the entire time. 

“I love you too, Minho.” Jisung said, quietly, as if they're about to fall asleep. Maybe they are. Minho didn't notice how heavy his eyelids are until just now. 

More than with anyone else, Minho feels when he's with Jisung. Feels like he wants to laugh and jump and live. 

Feels like he wants to love. 

“We have a lot of lost time to make up.” Minho added with a chuckle, once the silence grew stale. Minho smiled until his cheeks hurt, even though he's suddenly exhausted. They cuddled up even closer, in spite of the heaviness settled in their muscles.

“Well,” Jisung drawled, reaching up to press his forehead to Minho’s. 

“There's no better time to start than now, right?” 

He's smiling, Minho can hear it in his voice despite the nuzzling of their foreheads blocking his view. Now, huh? Yeah. That sounds good. 

Minho can’t help but agree.